Circus -- Fiction; Clowns -- Fiction; World War, 1914-1918 -- Veterans -- Fiction
Even the war had developed little of the Marseilles _gamine's_
conceptions of life. A General--she knew no grades--a modest Brigadier
ranking second only to a Field Marshal--was a General. He commanded an
army. A military demigod invested with a glamour and glory which, _ipso
facto_, of its own essence, provided him with ample wealth. And once a
General, always a General. The mere fact of no longer being employed in the
command of armies did not matter. The rank remained and with the rank the
golden stream to maintain it. According to popular legend the Oriental
ascetic who concentrates his gaze on the centre of his body and his
thoughts on the syllable "Om" arrives at a peculiar mental condition. So
the magic word on which she had so long meditated, had its hypnotic effect
on Elodie.
And when he had patiently explained--
"They give you nothing at all for being a General?" she almost screamed.
"Nothing at all," said Andrew.
"Then what's the good of being a General?"
"None that I can see," he replied with his grim smile.
Elodie's illusions fell clattering round about her ears. Not her illusions
as to Generals, but her illusions as to Andrew and British military
prestige. It was a strange army that no longer acknowledged its high
commanders--a strange country that could scrap them. Were British Generals
real, like French Generals, Lyautey and Manoury and Foch before he became
_Maréchal?_ She was bitterly disappointed. She had lived for nearly a
year in Andrew's glory. Now there seemed to be no shine in it whatever. He
wore no uniform. He received no pay. He was a mere civilian. He had to work
for his living like any demobilized poilu who returned to his counter or
his conductor's step on the tramway. And she had made such a flourish among
all her acquaintance over _son mari le général_. She went off by
herself and wept.
The cook whom she had engaged, coming to lay the cloth in the tiny
dining-room found her sobbing with her arms on the table. What was the
matter with Madame?
"_Ah, ma pauvre Ernestine, je suis bien malheureuse_."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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